Strength
by phreephree
Summary: Rose got her strength from her father. Now he is gone, and the world is changing. One-shot.


**This is my first one-shot, so I hope you all like it!**

I lived in a world of parties, money, and luxury. I never lifted a finger, never did any work around the mansion, I always wore the most stylish clothing, and yet, I was unhappy. My dresses, although beautiful, were uncomfortable, and the parties were dreadfully boring, since only selfish, soulless people attended them. The only reason I hadn't tried to commit suicide sooner, was because in the midst of all of it all, there was one person who truly loved, and cared for me. My father.

He was a good man, very unlike every other millionaire. He wasn't snobby, nor full-of-himself, he was a bad businessman-I will admit-but he had a good heart. When I was little, I would run crying to him because I believed there were monsters in my room. He comforted me, and told me lovely stories of princess, and fairies, and slowly, the monster disappeared.

My mother was a different story. She was just like every other person in my world; selfish, and greedy. How she was able to marry such a good man was beyond me, because she didn't deserve him, and he deserved better than her. Although I will say this for my mother; deep down, I'm sure she loved me. Not as much as my father, no, but I could tell from the jealous ways she looked at me and him, that she longed to form that bond as well. She often tried to make an effort by buying me a new dress, or throwing a grand party. She didn't know me well enough to know that I hated the dress she bought, and I thought her parties were a waste.

My father was another story. He knew me like the back of his hand, and so he knew _exactly_ how to please me. He would buy me pretty dolls, with their hair ties with a ribbon. He knew I loved roses, so he often left a bouquet of them in my room, with a note saying, "Not nearly as beautiful as my Rosebud, but lovely all the same."

As I grew older however, we grew apart. It was after my thirteenth birthday that it began. He was more withdrawn, and private, but I had assumed it was just a phase, and it would quickly pass, and we'd go back to doing everything together. How wrong I was.

It was hard at first. My father had been my rock, and with him not there for me anymore, I had nothing to hold on to. I cried myself to sleep at night, and the monsters that he had vanquished, returned, tormenting me into the night. But slowly, I toughened up, and became stronger. I found new things to take up my time, and I learned how to put up with Mother, and all those who were like her. I began to take an interest in art, particularly Monet. I had his painting hung in room, and often tried to make art as good as his, but I never could.

The whole family went to a grand ball thrown by the Mister and Missus Hannaford, one day. By this time, I was sixteen, and had grown used to my lack of companionship. The ball was predictable boring, passing in a blur, partially because of all the wine had drunk when no one was looking.

I had been drinking a glass, when my mother walked towards me, and I barely had time to throw the glass away before she saw.

"Rose, look who I found," she said. I groaned to myself when I saw Cal. Mother had a dream that I'd one day marry him, a dream that I found irritating.

"Hello, Rose," Cal said, kissing my hand.

"Hello, Mr. Hockley." He laughed.

"Please, call me Cal." Mother beamed, and I struggled to give a fake smile.

"Cal, is quite a gentleman, don't you think?" she asked in the car. I nodded, not daring to speak in fear that I'd cause her to go on a rant.

"What do you think, Henry?" she asked my father. From the corner of my eye, I could see him take a long drag on his cigarette, before answering.

"I don't like him, Ruth," he said finally. Mother's eyes became so large they looked as if they would pop right out of her head. I disguised my laughter with a cough.

"Of course you don't!" she shouted. "You don't appreciate anything that is proper and good." Father was unfazed by her insult, and continues to take long drags from his cigarette.

"He's too artificial, not good enough for Rosebud." My head shot up at the sound of my childhood nickname. It had been years since anyone had used it and the name sounded rusty but comforting, like an old chest you hadn't opened in ages.

Father's eyes strayed on mine, and for a few moments we stared at each other, long enough to know we both wished we could go back and have the companionship we once shared. But then father looked away, now staring out the window, and I knew it would never happen

Father died two months later. They told me it was from all the drinking he had done and I was stupidly surprised. I should've seen it coming, with all the late nights he came home, so drunk he couldn't tell a chair and Mother apart. All the feelings from the first time he had abandoned me resurfaced, and I again cried myself to sleep, and saw ugly creatures following me in the dark.

"Rose," Mother said one day. "The money is gone. There is nothing left." I rolled my eyes. Had she taken me for such an idiot that I wouldn't notice that she had sold all our valuables?

"I know, Mother," I said softly. "Does that mean that we must stop attending parties and shop less often?" If so, being poor seemed like more of a reward.

"Of course not!" she scoffed. "If we do that people will become suspicious."

"And they won't be when we're living on the streets," I replied sarcastically. Mother ignored the comment.

"We have no choice Rose, you must marry. I had a specific man in mind…" I nearly fainted.

"You can't mean…"

"Cal," she finished. I wordlessly left the room, and cried.

Cal and I were officially engaged two weeks later, our wedding was set to take place in America, we'd be leaving on the _Titanic._

I stared down at my engagement ring, wishing it would crack in half, or burst into flames, taking me with it. I decided to take my mind off my too soon cruel future, by reminiscing the past. I looked through my old collection of dolls. I had loved dolls as a child. My favorite was a china doll, with pale white skin and curly black hair. I named her Victoria, after the queen of England, and she often accompanied me on mine and Father's adventures. I touched her hair, remembering all the times I had lovingly brushed it, and fawned over her beauty.

"I wish I had black hair, like Victoria's," I used to say.

"But you have such pretty red hair," Father would counter. "You know what red represent, Rose? Strength. God gave humans red hair, so he can tell the strong ones apart from the rest."

"Am I strong, Daddy?" I asked.

"Yes, Rosebud, you are _very_ strong."

I smiled at the memory. If there was anything I needed right then, it was strength.

"You'll give me strength, won't you Victoria?" She didn't answer, but I patted her head as if she did. It was then that I felt something in her hat. Confused, I slipped it off her head, and a slip of paper fell out. I unfolded it, and found someone had quickly written inside of it. _"Dear Rosebud," _The first line said. My heart stopped beating for a moment, and I covered the paper with my hand, so I wouldn't have to look at it. The name that had once made me giggle now caused pain at the remembrance of the better life I had once had. After a few deep breaths, I worked up the courage to read the note.

_ Dear Rosebud,_

_ I am not sure when or _if _you will read this, but I pray that if you do, it is shortly after my soon-to-come death. The money is gone, which I am sure you will have known by now, but I must say so anyhow. I am sorry I will not be there to take care of you and your mother any longer, and I am sorry for the many sorrows I have caused you. But you are the strongest person I know, Rose, I know you will be able to endure all the hardships coming your way, and in the end, you will come out victorious._

Tears slipped from my eyes, and I quickly wiped them. My father had given me many joys and many sorrows, there was no denying that. But no matter what, he still loved me, and deep in my heart, I always knew that. I had been fortunate enough to be given his strength before he had passed, and it was a gift I would take and carry on until my death. A lot of things can be taken from you, but the things on the inside would remain for as long as you let them.

I put Victoria up on the shelf, and left the room, twirling my red curls around my finger.


End file.
